


I Never Stick Around

by OzQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), White Collar
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Community: galentinesday, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Kindred Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara stops for coffee in a little diner on the way back to Manhattan and finds a kindred spirit in the local sheriff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Never Stick Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladybug218](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybug218/gifts).



> Written for jenbug as part of galentinesday 2014 on dreamwidth.

* * *

Sara's not sure what she expected in this bleak smudge of a town –- which doesn't even appear worthy of an appearance on her map –- but it's not a little blonde sheriff with a red leather jacket and a no-nonsense expression.

“This your car?” the sheriff asks, nodding.

“Are you writing me a ticket?” Sara turns her cup of coffee in her hands, fingertips burning against the thin cardboard.

The sheriff looks like she finds this amusing. “No. Nice wheels, though. And a New York plate.” She lifts her chin slightly, blue eyes calculating. “You're far from home.”

Sara gets it. At least, she thinks she does. This place probably doesn't see too many strangers. “Work,” she says, shrugging slightly.

The sheriff folds her arms and bounces a little on her heels, glancing towards the diner Sara has just exited. “Anything I can help you with?” she asks. “Directions?”

“Actually I’m just on my way through,” Sara says. “I didn't even know there was a town here. Not that I can say I’m ungrateful –- Granny makes a mean coffee.” She raises the cup slightly.

The sheriff gives her a small smile and nods. “Well,” she says, “drive safe.”

Sara treats it as some sort of warning, like she's being let off for something at the sheriff's own discretion. She just offers a cautious smile in return before she unlocks her car.

The sheriff heads for the diner, pausing at the door to watch Sara pull out into the street.

* * *

It's less than a week later and Sara is headed back south, the stolen necklace safe in her locked briefcase. McLelland will be extradited back to New York, but that's someone else's job; Sara's done and there's a warm glow of satisfaction in her chest . (And bruises on her knuckles, and she snapped a heel off one of her Prada stilettos, but all in all it's been a successful few days.)

She could make it back to Manhattan by midnight if she put her foot down, but the adrenaline of the chase and the win has already worn off some, and she's not due back in the city until Monday.

Taking her time, taking in the sights... Well, she's earned a day or two.

* * *

Storybrooke isn't on any map she can find, and even her GPS equipment only indicates woods and bleak, bare coastline.

Still, Sara likes a little mystery, and she loves a chase. Chasing down a town isn't the weirdest thing she's done lately.

* * *

“You're back.”

Sara spins on her stool to see the sheriff eyeing her with a curious little smile.

“Just passing through,” Sara says. “On my way home again.”

The sheriff slips her red jacket from her arms and takes a stool just one seat away. “We don't get many visitors,” she says after a moment.

The waitress sits a frothy hot chocolate in front of the sheriff, the whiff of rich cocoa and cinnamon in the air. “Your usual,” she says.

“Thanks, Ruby.” The sheriff glances over at Sara. “Staying long?”

Sara has decided to like the sheriff. She's direct and evasive, friendly and prickly. Sara likes anyone who will wear their curls down and a badge on their hip, sipping at hot chocolate dusted in cinnamon and passing off an interrogation as friendly chatter.

“No,” Sara answers eventually, tracing a finger around her own mug of coffee. “Just needed a shot of caffeine.”

The sheriff's mouth twists into a little smile of understanding, which she hides behind a sip of hot chocolate.

“Sara Ellis,” Sara says after a moment, extending her hand.

The sheriff's grip is cool and firm. “Emma Swan.”

They nod at one another and drop hands. The diner is quiet –- the waitress clicks up and down behind the counter wearing high red heels, polishing glasses and cutlery, looking bored. When Sara asks for a refill, she smiles and tops her up, says the refill is free.

“I was surprised to find a town here,” Sara admits to Emma after a few minutes.

“Me too,” the sheriff says with a wry smile.

“You're not a local, then?” Sara asks. She empties a packet of Sweet'N Low into her coffee; the second cup is bitter.

“No,” the sheriff says, and doesn't offer any further explanation. “What sort of work are you in?” she asks, those clear blue eyes holding her gaze steadily.

“Insurance,” Sara says.

There's a subtle shift in the sheriff's expression –- a glint of something that speaks of suspicion.

“Well,” Sara clarifies, suddenly feeling like she's been caught in a lie, “insurance recovery. Less paperwork. More fun.”

Emma laughs, and whatever tension was in the air evaporates. Sara's not even sure it was there to begin with, but she's clever enough to know this sheriff should not be underestimated.

“I used to do something similar,” Emma says after a moment. “I kind of miss the chase, sometimes.”

Sara tries to imagine herself suddenly settling into the role of small-town sheriff, and she almost snorts a laugh into her coffee.

“Yeah,” Emma says drily, as though she can tell exactly what Sara is thinking. “Never picked myself as the type to settle down.”

“And here of all places?” Sara asks, grinning. “What made you stay?”

Emma wraps her fingers around her mug. “Family,” she says eventually, and this time the expression in her eyes is uncomfortably knowing; anyone lost has that same look, that same haunt in the air around them.

Sara knows there are many, many layers and meanings hidden under her choice to find things for a living. She wonders what it would be like to suddenly be so satisfied with a find or a discovery -– to be able to close down, to settle.

They sip their drinks in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the rain hit the front windows of Granny's diner.

Emma finishes her hot chocolate before Sara finishes her second coffee. She slides from the stool with a little hop and shrugs back into her jacket, pulling her hair free of the collar. “It was nice to meet you, Sara,” she says. “Like I said –- we don't get many visitors in Storybrooke.”

“Maybe you guys should look into a tourism campaign,” Sara says with a small smile. “Maps and advertising. That sort of thing.”

Emma laughs. “Right.”

Sara takes her card from her purse and offers it to Emma between two fingers. “In case you ever want to talk about the old days,” she says. “The chases.”

Emma smiles at her and takes the card. “Yeah, maybe,” she says. She chews at her lip for a moment, thinking something over, before she takes a pen from her jacket pocket and scrawls her number on a paper napkin.

She slides it towards Sara. “In case you want to talk about a new life,” she says, “and what it's like when you've found what you're chasing.”

Sara traces her fingers around the edge of the napkin before she folds it carefully and tucks it into her purse. “Thanks,” she says, not quite able to make eye contact.

Emma nods at her, thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jeans. “Drive safe, Sara Ellis,” she says eventually.

Sara feels a little like she's saying goodbye to a kindred spirit. “See you around, Emma Swan.”

* * *

When Sara gets back to her car, she saves Emma's number in her phone, and Storybrooke's coordinates in her GPS.

* * *

 


End file.
